


fun new life experiences

by hylian_reptile



Series: RvB Fluff Week [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Delta Can Haz A Cookie, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 20:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14119959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hylian_reptile/pseuds/hylian_reptile
Summary: York and Delta find some upsides to being on the run from Freelancer.





	fun new life experiences

The first time York and Delta pass a bakery in the days after the _Mother of Invention_ ’s crash, Delta’s hit with half a dozen of York’s memories at once: cake at birthday parties, baking edibles with friends, buying sugar cookies for girlfriends on their periods, tart pies on the holidays he could be assed to care about, bagels to tear apart when he couldn’t pay attention and fidgeted through classroom seminars. There were no freshly baked breads or grains aboard the _Mother of Invention_ , which subsisted mostly on food bars and nutritional shakes. York takes a hard left and walks straight into the bakery without half a thought.

 

 _We do not have money to spare_ , Delta warns York. They’re broke, tired, in the middle of packing their sparse belongings to move to the next district over; they have neither credits nor time to do this. Their clothes are slightly too dirty to be in the clean, purple-brown decorated bakery, with the shiny coffee tables in the corner and the two high school girls sitting on the couch with a shared muffin. Delta does a periphery check on the girls on the couch and determines their probability of being undercover for the UNSC or Freelancer at 1%; the cashier’s probability is at 8%. Nevertheless: a bad idea.

 

The door opens and the smell of bread hits York’s nose. York’s lizard hindbrain says something along the lines of ‘yolo’.

 

“Hello, welcome to Nina’s,” says the cashier. York smiles brightly and waves. Lizard hindbrain says the cashier has a nice smile, and that it’s a shame that York hasn’t showered in three days and hasn’t slept in twenty-four hours.

 

 _York,_ Delta says again, _these foods are both nutritionally inferior and monetarily disadvantageous._

 

We’ll make up the money, York promises, and marches right up to the glass case full of baked goods. York has his heart set on the ginger snaps already, and maybe flirting with the cashier, who has nice brown eyes and an earring in his left ear.

 

Delta does the calculations. Gives York a mental prediction that if York buys these baked goods, economy and stock market chances indicate their chances of being thousands of dollars in debt within the next six months are at 60%.

 

York tells him to stop being a shitlord and decide what cookie Delta wants.

 

The cashier is waiting while York stares off into the middle distance, having a conversation with the person in his head. “Sorry, still deciding,” says York.

 

“Take your time,” says the cashier politely, which has a 85% chance of disguising impatience or boredom, so Delta immediately decides on just a second ginger snap.

 

“Actually just kidding,” says York quickly, “we’ll have—”

 

 _You, not we_ , Delta corrects.

 

“I mean _I’ll_ have two ginger snaps,” says York on reflex. Both Delta and York realize simultaneously that messing up such a basic pronoun in the middle of a sentence was weird, but changing the sentence midway through was weirder.

 

The cashier’s eyebrows lower a fraction of an inch. Okay, not a great impression.

 

 _I tried_ , says Delta.

 

York knows he did, D. York is unshaven, with bags under his eyes, has a gigantic dirt stain on the right shoulder of his t-shirt, missing an entire eye, and they’re skipping town in fifteen hours, twenty-two minutes, and thirty-nine seconds, so it’s not like he really had a chance anyway.

 

York pays and takes his overpriced sugar-bread and ducks out of the ritzy bakery, back onto the noisy, dirty city streets where he visibly belongs. Delta knows that York’s heading to the back alley behind the bakery to eat the pastries as soon as possible. _Would it not be more sanitary to go back to our motel?_ Delta suggests.

 

York weaves through the crowd and mutters under his breath, “Oh my god, D, what’s the point of being on the run if you can’t crouch in a dirty alleyway while eating cookies and looking like homeless rat?”

 

_I do not see the point of wanting to look like a homeless rat._

 

“It’s fun,” says York. “Fun new life experiences for both of us, post-Freelancer.” A man in a business suit looks at York with concern for talking aloud to himself, and York gives him a wink.

 

York and Delta wind up sitting on an overturned bucket near a dumpster, looking up at the atmosphere, watching normal folk pass by on the street through the narrow space between buildings. York does a very real inventory of how many credits he has left, while Delta does a less exaggerated prediction of how their future funds look. They’re okay. York wouldn’t have bought it if they wouldn’t have been okay, in truth. Delta knows that.

 

 _It was still unnecessary_ , says Delta.

 

In the privacy of the alley, York shrugs and says aloud, “It’s totally worth it, though. You’ve never had a really good cookie before. Well, I mean, you can’t eat, but—y’know what I mean. You can hang out wherever my brain taste buds are.”

 

Delta possesses no physical body and, when Delta was installed into one, Delta was to remain permanently with an active experimental soldier. Certainly not a runaway lockpick skimming through odd jobs, forging fake IDs, and splurging on a nine-credit bag of pastries. And for that matter, Delta was born aboard the _Mother of Invention_ , which had no cookies, or parties, or friendly cashiers, or quick bustle of a city sidewalk, or dirty alleyways to crouch in like a homeless rat. Delta was expected to die either onboard or in battle. York does not say so because he does not agree with the Director’s intentions, but they all know that Delta was never built to enjoy life.

 

York peels open the bag, spills crumbs along the asphalt, licks dusted sugar off his own fingers. Hums a little bit to himself and to Delta, here in this little crack under the city sky where runaway Freelancers hide, peeling the ginger snap apart to reveal its fluffy, chewy insides. They’ve got two cookies and fifteen hours, sixteen minutes, fifty-two seconds left in this city before they need to catch a bus to the next district over. It’s time and food worth savoring.

 

 _Thank you, York_ , says Delta. He doesn’t mean the cookies.

 

York grins. “Yeah, don’t mention it, D. I got you.”


End file.
